


The Maiden's Blessing/Curse

by NightReaderEnigma



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon - Book, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Pining, Post-Canon Divergence, Pretty Brienne, Romance, Some Fluff, Some angst, a bit of everything really, a true love adores you for who you are not how you look, learning to love yourself, self-image issues, somehow an Austen vibe snuck in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightReaderEnigma/pseuds/NightReaderEnigma
Summary: “Be lighter than air and go forth with a spring in your step – for you will be lovelier than a sunrise kissed by melody, than a rose bud gilded in dewdrops, sparkling in the beams of the morn.Your features the work of divine hands, your frame the sculpt of desire - until all who gaze upon you will believe it is I myself who walk amongst them.  A Goddess projected into human form, Brienne a mirror of my finest handiwork…”Brienne of Tarth has long acknowledged several facts about her life:That she is in love with Jaime Lannister, but he could never love her back.   That he is beautiful and she is not.  And that the realms of romance are unattainable to someone as unattractive as she – fashioned only for mockery and disdain.So, when her Father announces he shall be hosting a tourney to find her a suitable husband, it is Brienne’s worst nightmare come reality.  In a moment of despair, she turns to prayer, begging the Maiden for divine intervention…But be careful what you wish for – you just might get it.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 95
Kudos: 143





	1. You don’t know what you’ve got, until it’s gone – Joni Mitchell

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks!
> 
> So, this one has been a long time in the making. It is set in post-canon Westeros but it is divergent, so expect it to take on a life force of its own. It has a dash of every genre, so I really have no idea how to tag it, LOL. However, it is fully written (NB: The summary is a bit of a teaser and hints to events which will happen from Chapter 2 onwards, the first chapter is more an intro). I will release intermittently, but I’m not going to stick to a strict schedule because I know life gets in the way; therefore please subscribe to know when it is updated.
> 
> This fic does carry a trigger warning for self-image issues. It is one of the central themes of the story that is worked through as the tale progresses. Also, the canon-era old-fashioned mindsets and discriminations run rampant.
> 
> I give this warning as I believe in being honest upfront, however I would like to say that this is not a relentlessly heavy fic. Some chapters are serious and some are light. Overall, it was an interesting concept to play with and I really enjoyed writing this tale. I am very excited to finally be sharing it. <3
> 
> Each chapter title is themed with an adage, proverb or quote and this is my first multi-chapter to be told entirely from a single POV (Brienne’s).
> 
> Here we go! 😊
> 
> (PS. I actually wanted the title to have a strikethrough but I could only get it to work in the html, so please forgive my reinsertion of the title below)
> 
>   
>  ****  
>  **The Maiden's ~~Blessing~~ Curse**   
> 

Tarth was just how she remembered; lush and teeming with life. Salt sea air and perfumed spring blossoms. A locale untouched by winter or war. 

Brienne couldn’t attest to the same within herself. All that she’d seen and survived had broadened the scope of her perspective, gifting her a glimpse of a tomorrow beyond the limitations of tradition. Overtaking those who remained sedentary, content to dwell in their rigidity and tunnel vision. 

“We must make a match for you.” 

The swordswench turned away from the wide window overlooking the ocean, arms crossing upon her flat chest. “For years I have been absent – unheard of – and we circle straight back to this?” She shook her head in disbelief, coarse straw-like hair scratching against her ears. “I thought this matter was settled in my sixteenth year?”

“You earnt yourself a sabbatical, one which extended far beyond my intentions.” Lord Selwyn rotated in his high-backed chair to regard her, the filtered sunlight flooding into his study catching the steel in his blue eyes. “It was my hope that you’d return with gained maturity.”

“Oh, but I have.” Gravel and conviction imbued her voice. “It is not a naïve damsel who stands before you Father, but a woman grown and ready to assume my position as Evenstar.”

“With a husband by your side…”

“Is that what it takes?” If Brienne was wounded by his underestimation, she had learnt to wear it inwardly. “What you require for me to be worthy of _my_ role? Another at my side, taking over in _my_ stead?” 

“Dispense with the protestations, they will not serve you well.” Lord Selwyn scoffed, her short-lived hold upon his undivided attention slipping as he returned to shuffling through various paperwork. “Heirs are not made by themselves.”

“On that much we agree.” She plonked gracelessly into the chair opposite him, almost tripping upon the hem of the hideous dress her Septa insisted she wear. 

‘ _A Lady of Tarth must look the part.’_

It was mortifying and completely unflattering. “The right to rule should not be _made_ but _earned._ ” Brienne banged her fist roughly upon the wooden desktop, making him jump. “Worthiness deemed by more than gender and birthright. I have proven myself not by blood or succession, but by merit, honour and battles well fought.”

It was true – the scars she wore spoke to her trials and triumphs. The rake of bear claws jutting out from her neckline, angry, jagged and red. A noose burn decorating her throat with a grotesque necklace. The gnarled, hideous chunk ripped from her cheek by Biter’s mouth, permanently disfiguring her face. Several more bite marks dotted her skin, gifts from wights, the undead known for employing gnashing teeth when their weapons were lost.

“I have paid my dues Father, let me rule alone.” Brienne was in a passion, the topic igniting fire in her veins. “If heirs are your concern, fear not. Podrick writes me often, he flourishes under Tyrion’s tutelage – yet he has no homeland to call his own. When the time comes, I shall summon him, shape him for leadership.” 

“You expect me to let Evenfall fall into the hands of an outsider, when I have a fertile daughter?!” The Evenstar’s voice boomed, her Father rising from his chair like a Kraken from the ocean. Tall, imposing and unable to be swayed. “I _will_ be making marriage arrangements for you Brienne, so the sooner you accept it the better.” 

Jumping to her feet, she frowned. “I bid you luck then Father – for you will need it.” Her only consolation was her shroud of adversity. “All will flee at the sight of me. No man wishes to wed an unsightly beast.” 

“We shall see.” Lord Selwyn glowered. “I do not deny it is an obstacle, but Tarth is a handsome dowry.” 

* * *

She wished the warm water could sink into her bones, loosen the knot which bound her chest. Slacken the ironwork net closing around her lungs, gradually suffocating her breath and drowning her in misery. 

Brienne had hoped the bath would soothe her, but instead it brought back memories…of another tub, many years and miles ago. 

At the time she thought herself living through hell, now those tumultuous memories were the subject of her nostalgia. Simultaneously causing her suffering and providing her balm. 

_And to top it all off - I have to endure the sight of myself unclad…_

Brienne scowled at her thick waist and manly chest, scrubbing at her sprinkling of freckles until her skin became chaffed and red. As though someday they would magically come away with the scouring of lye and cloth. 

Her legs had gone numb, her long limbs and broad frame squashed into the small wooden tub. Kneecaps poking from the top of the water, her skin intermittently interrupted by battle scars. Thighs reminiscent of tree trunks visible below the rippling surface, the small burn mark on her right haunch, making her flesh resemble bark. 

She remembered the searing heat from an ally’s flaming torch brushing against her in the fray, the Walkers pressing them closely, trying to herd them back. Jaime had snuffed the patch with her frosty cloak before the scent of singed fabric had even reached her nostrils. At the time she didn’t even feel it.

The pain had come though. Much later. The damage to her battered body so extensive, the burn was just another place for her nerve endings to cry out in the anguish of continued existence. But the Maesters were needed to save lives and those suffering non-fatal injuries could treat themselves. 

Brienne recalled how she had winced, clutching a frozen stick between her teeth, collapsing into the snow, trying to find some privacy to tend her wounds. Her breeches had melted onto her skin, and her attempts to prise them off made tears stream from her eyes despite her bravery. 

It was then that Jaime had approached her, having followed when she broke from the crowd. He knelt in the frost, sporting several injuries of his own, cringing with the effort but determined nonetheless.

He had flung her hand aside, slapping her fingers gently away with his golden prosthetic when she tried to stop him assisting. Ever stubborn, Brienne had spat the wood from her mouth in order to protest. “They are my breeches Ser! You cannot remove them.”

“Shush Wench, I have seen it all before. This goes beyond modesty over your backside.” Together they had peeled the material away to the sound of her muffled cries. The twig snapping under the pressure of her bite as he packed handfuls of ice onto the raw flesh. 

_Jaime…my thoughts always circle back to Jaime._

Her index finger traced the scar upon her thigh. A clean line which she strangely cherished, even though it added to the repugnant spectacle of her appearance. This was a mark gifted to her by the golden lion, a memento of his last fight with his right paw. Jaime’s own forehead was graced by the gash she’d given him in return - faint but enduring, despite the Maester’s optimism. 

Their scars defied the healing arts, like brands exchanged between them. Tokens bestowed upon each other, carried throughout their long acquaintance. Noticeable when they were together, remaining when they were leagues apart. Serving to make their shared history impossible to forget. 

_Of all my blemishes, I hope this one never fades._

With a splash, Brienne rose from the steaming water, her muscles tingling when the blood began to flow again. Water dripping from her as she stepped out of the tub, drying off with eyes affixed upon her writing desk across the room, avoiding the sight of her naked body. Mind far away in contemplation. 

Every night she was besieged by the desire to put quill to ink. To finally pen another line in the letter she had started but never finished. But each time she sat down, the words died before they made it to the parchment, in much the same way as they died upon her tongue when she had stood before Jaime and bid farewell. 

The curse was hers then and it prevailed now. The same spectre which had haunted her since girlhood. Debilitating shyness and unforgiveable ugliness. The two afflictions combining hand in hand to destroy her hopes and dreams. Consigning her to a life of ridicule and heartache. The agony of loving a man with near godlike handsomeness. Him an impossible aspiration for a grotesque such as she, an aberration to the norm that never quite fit in anywhere. 

How could she put her feelings into sentences? How could she address the man who made her heart skip beats? 

At least when they were in front of each other it was more natural; she could slip into the role of comrade and forget that she was different from the other men. Stand shoulder to shoulder with Jaime and try to ignore how she was the only soldier whose gaze outlined his lips, who longed to knot fingers in his hair and feel his breath on the juncture of her neck. 

For those were feminine dreams, to which she was not entitled. All you had to do was ask the opinions of the males who encountered her. 

‘Hairy freak.’ They dubbed her. ‘Beast.’ And …

_‘Beauty’._

The word generally reserved for flattery snarled with such disdain its barb struck deeper than the rest combined. 

To them she was not a woman - why they barely even treated her like a human - and the only way she would be on the receiving end of compliments would be when they were imbued with cruelty and sarcasm. 

Sadder still was that she could not blame them…

Beauty was synonymous with womanhood. Pretty lady. Maiden fair. Her whole life she heard the familiar sayings and in most cases they were true. 

The girls who flitted around Evenfall and army camps were comely; visions of grace and charisma. Slight of frame or full of breast, beguiling and dainty. 

The odd exception to the rule, was generally labelled ‘plain.’ But kindly people would remark upon ‘redeeming features’ until there came a man who would find them charming enough to overlook the rest. 

But for Brienne - the misfortune of her appearance exceeded even those parameters. 

She sighed whilst she dressed, viewing herself with naught but contempt. Self-loathing intensifying as her thoughts strayed once again to the mainland, to the decrees and dismissals which sent her and Jaime on their separate ways. 

The Dragon Queen had conquered the Iron Throne shortly after their victory over the White Walkers. Beginning her new reign by holding court and addressing the surviving heroes one by one. 

“Lady Brienne, you fought valiantly. I thank you for your service to Westeros and release you to return home to Tarth with accolades.” To most it would have been considered a triumph, but her heart had sunk. Returning to Evenfall meant a battle for her independence, trading a war with swords for words. The prize freedom; the enemy a loveless marriage and subservience.

“Ser Jaime, step forward.”

He had been beside her since the North, his familiar form always within arm’s reach – not that she ever dared to try the theory. But Brienne had grown accustomed to his blonde locks in her peripheral vision, his cutting smiles and wicked sense of humour vexing her at mealtime. 

The lion had been granted his life following his first trial at Winterfell, evading a death sentence in order join the fight for humanity. But now that the Targaryen had taken her place as Queen, both he and Brienne knew there would be a price yet to pay. 

“You fought well and bravely, for this you deserve clemency. But you are also the man who slew my Father – for this you warrant punishment. As Hand of the Queen, Lord Tyrion has informed me that your reasons for regicide had merit, but this does not excuse the crime. With the commencement of my reign, your position in the Kingsguard was revoked, reinstating you as head of House Lannister - but this does not sit comfortably with the Crown. Therefore, I decree that henceforth you are demoted to behind your brother. Lord Tyrion will assume the role as Lord of Casterly Rock, liege of the Westerlands and Warden of the West. As the second son, you may retain the title of Lord, but you can no longer claim the lands, funds nor holdings. How you choose to live your life thereafter Ser Jaime, is left up to your discretion.” 

Hours passed before they spoke again. Brienne had been standing alone on the battlements when he found her, staring out into Blackwater Bay. Frowning at the ships which would carry her back to duty and conventionalism. 

“Cheer up Wench.” Jaime had been surprisingly merry for a man disinherited. “You’re homely enough – no need to add the glowering. You get to go back to that precious rock in the Narrow Sea of yours and I get to…” He had trailed off, shrugging. “…Find somewhere to stash myself where I will not be a nuisance.” 

On the tip of her tongue had been to invite him along, filled with a yearning to have him accompany her back to Tarth. 

_He could…we could…I could…_

Fantasies frolicked through her head – of them together in the ship’s cabin, of courage seizing her, of colliding lips and then hips. Of making him her husband when they landed ashore. 

_All I have to do is ask him to come. Just that one step. Small to most, but life changing for me…_

But her mouth had gone dry, instead choking out. “M-my Father will have plans for me. The Tarth line needs heirs.” 

The golden knight beside her grimaced dramatically. “An unenviable position – but mayhaps there’s a silver lining? High chance you’ve frightened all the prospective suitors away. Men generally value their cock - and you’re more like to sever it than pleasure it.” 

He chuckled then, but her heartstrings twisted painfully. “Don’t look so glum. I daresay your prospects are favourable if you want to continue evading wedlock. The only way Selwyn’s going to make a match for you is if he finds a man as unattractive as you are – and if that is the case your legs are going to well and truly stay crossed and no heirs will be forthcoming.” 

Brienne wheeled on him, cheeks reddening in anger. “Are you done Ser?” 

Jaime just cocked his head to the side, green eyes gleaming. “Am I ever really?” 

Her nostrils flared, words spitting from her in barely contained rage. “I am glad you find my predicament so amusing.”

“Well, there you go – I told you there was something to be happy about.”

She had groaned loudly, stomping away. Feeling like the world’s biggest fool. 

_He will never care for me, not as I do for him. Not with my face. Not with my frame. Jaime cannot love me as I love him._

But as was their pattern, the next time they spoke it was as if their quarrel had never happened. And when they said goodbye at the docks her heart was weightier than the anchors which sunk to the bottom of Blackwater Bay. 

Brienne was certain that they would never see each other again, her longing for it to not be so, causing the greatest ache in her chest she had ever known. And she wondered if her desperate heart imagined the sadness she sensed permeating from Jaime’s generally jolly demeanour as he waved farewell. Her view of him standing on the pier slowly growing smaller as the galley carried her away.

She had stared until his features blurred, until he was little more than an outline, a speck in the distance – then gone entirely. Only then did she retreat below, and the cabin of the ship which had featured in her fantasy, was filled only with the echo of her sobs.

To this very moment, Brienne still became choked up when she dwelt on the memory.

_Write him._ The solution seemed deceptively simple, making her sigh in futility. Standing before the page once more, she ran her fingertips over the long-dried salutation. 

**_Dear Ser Jaime…_ **

Brienne shook her head despondently. _What can I possibly write?_

**_We have saved each other more times than I can count. We have been through the worst the world had to throw at us and survived. But the things I need to tell you, I could not do face to face - for I did not have the courage._ **

**_I love you. My Father intends to make me wed. The only man I want is you. Will you come to me? I need to see you again…_ **

She screwed the parchment up into a ball, squeezing it in her mighty fist in frustration. 

_All these things would be sweet and evocative – if I were not me._

_Penned from my hand they are just pathetic. A piteous creature, unwanted, tragic and lonely. Jaime and I at least have respect. If I send this – I will lose that too. Besides - where would I send it? I know not where he is, nor how to reach him. But it does not matter._

_My confession would make no difference. My letter will not alter the status quo._

_He is beautiful – I am not._

_His previous lover was the most desirable woman in Westeros. From coast to coast they spoke of Cersei’s beauty, her seductive, enthralling magnetism. She resembled the image of what a woman ought to be, she personified what a man such as Jaime craves. His equal in appearance, his match in appeal._

_I love him – he will never love me. Not as a man loves a woman. I was not built to be deserving of that kind of affection._


	2. The moment we desire to be something, we are no longer free – Zen Proverb

“I’m hosting a Tourney.” 

“I beg pardon?” Brienne blinked at her Father across the dining table, fork poised mid-air. “Did you just announce that you are throwing a tournament?” 

The idea thrilled her. The chance to ride at joust for the first time and compete in a melee again. 

_Knights from all over the land will come if the purse is generous enough. Maybe even Ser Jaime…_

Her pulse quickened and a smile tugged at her mouth.

“Yes Brienne, you heard correctly. I intend to make it a grand affair indeed.” 

She beamed. “I think that is a wonderful idea Father. It will surely garner support for Tarth and perhaps even encourage some new trade agreements.” Brienne chewed whilst mulling it over, seeing the avenues of opportunity it would provide. Swallowing she proclaimed. “You have my full support; I will help in any way I can. But – may I ask the prize you are offering? It would have to be substantial in order to attract a crowd...”

“I’m pleased you asked – a shrewd enquiry.” Selwyn’s eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her. “In addition to a sum of dragons, I am offering your hand in marriage to the entrant of my choice. Their proposals are to be submitted upon their arrival, along with the tourney entrance papers if they wish to be considered. The victors in the three events will of course gain an advantage, but the final choice of your husband will be mine.”

Brienne spluttered, almost choking as the food in her stomach came surging back up her throat. Horror making the blood and colour drain from her complexion. “Surely, you cannot be serious?” 

“My word.” He nodded sombrely. “It is an effective way to view and assess potential suitors – a method I thought would be to your liking. In the past you have voiced your preference for a man with strength in combat.”

She frowned deeply, pure terror making her voice quake. “I said I would not submit to a man who was unable to best _me_ with a sword. I said nothing about parading me in public as if a prize mare or breeding stock. Besides the affront I take at being so greatly undervalued, the concept is humiliating. They will gawk at me...” The thought of their stares made her skin crawl, her insides lurch. 

“Undervalued?” The Evenstar sipped from his chalice, daring to seem offended by _her_ words. “It is an honour to have them fight for the right to wed you. Most daughters are married off with simply the flourish of a quill. I am giving you a production which should be to your liking.” 

“They will not be competing for the love or want of _me_ Father – they will bring their best game for the opportunity to become the Evenstar of Tarth. No more and no less. The purse is indeed handsome – a Lordship for the champion – but I am the inconvenient and unsightly steppingstone.” Tears welled in her eyes. “How can you subject me to this?”

“Now you are just being ungrateful.” He huffed, wiping his face on a linen napkin before tossing it angrily upon the table. “It is organised. The invitations have gone out. This is happening daughter – with or without your consent. I have listened to your objections for too many years; I will not entertain anymore protests. You have been indulged for long enough. We are a proud and noble lineage; I will not have it be said the Tarth name came to an end because my sole surviving heir flouted her obligations.”

A tear rolled down her face, bulbous and large like the rest of her, winding its way through the twisted flesh of her mutilated cheek. Brienne swiped at it angrily, searching for an out. 

“I will enter.” She declared, nodding as another droplet threatened to fall, tilting her head back and squeezing her eyes shut. Willing the moisture to dissipate. 

“Enter _what_ exactly?” 

“The melee.” Lowering her head, Brienne levelled him with her distraught blue spheres. “If your wish is for me to cooperate - to placidly and compliantly go along with this insidious plan - you will grant me permission to fight for my own hand. We acknowledged many years ago that I would only yield to a man who could defeat me – as a man of your word, I anticipate this agreement still stands?”

Lord Selwyn raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I intend for the festivities to span days Brienne. There will be parties, a ball and much socialising. If I acquiesce and allow you to compete – you will personify the role of the Lady of Tarth and play your part for the entire duration of the tourney.” 

“As long as you assure me – that in the event of my victory, no marriage will be ensuing without my full blessing and agreement.” 

“You are optimistic.” Her Father chuckled. “You expect to beat them all? The men will swiftly target you in the melee once they realise the threat your entrance poses to their aim and ego.” 

Her waterlogged gaze was unflinching. “Do we have a deal?” 

“Very well Brienne – I accept your terms.” He nodded but his expression was severe. “Though best prepare yourself daughter, the outcome is inevitable. A wedding will soon be held in Evenfall Hall.” 

* * *

In her bed chamber there was no cause to stem her bitter tears. No consolation which would make the salt rivers run dry, not a soul to witness her fragility and fears. For years she had hidden them, suppressed them. Through adversity and when faced with the Stranger she maintained composure, stoic and strong. Brienne could count on one hand the instances where she had cried like this in her adult life. 

_When Renly was married, when Renly died. The day Ser Jaime heard about his children, the day we parted at the docks. That night at the Northern inn…_

Brienne scrunched her face, she wasn’t sure why she was thinking of that now, surely she had enough pain in the present without dredging up another time she had sought solitude to weep. 

But there was a haunting echo to its recollection, a theme that would carry into her future. The very reason why the sight of her own bed made her tremble and caused her blue lakes to flood their banks anew. 

_When I wed, I will be expected to lay with my husband. I don’t want to. Not unless it’s…_

Poorly tuned fiddles swelled with music, dozens of couples pressed too closely for comfort, the tune drowning out her thoughts and the confines making her heart race. “It is crowded Ser!” She yelled to be heard above the ruckus. “We will have to find another place to spend the night.”

“Spring has broken, victory was declared, the living have triumphed over the undead!” Jaime had laughed kindly. “There will not be an Inn in the North that isn’t packed to the rafters. We will just have to make room.” 

“Perhaps we can sleep in the stable?”

“And miss the merrymaking? _We_ were on the front line – _we_ made this possible. We deserve to kick up our heels-” His green eyes lit up mid-sentence. “Ahhh – there’s Tyrion. It’s nothing short of a miracle that I spotted him. I always know to look for the goblet waving up and down in the throngs. The relationship between my brother and I may be damaged beyond repair but Tyrion has agreed to place aside his animosity towards me for tonight. That just goes to show you how important this celebration is.” Two rows of teeth flashed at her then. “Come Wench, I won’t let you run off in your sensible, responsible way. You have earnt the right to live a little.” Jaime’s hand had slipped into hers and the air had been sucked from her lungs. Fingers lacing together as she stared dumbly at their joining. “I will make sure we don’t get separated. We’ll stay together.” He pulled her into the fray and she followed in a daze. Palm throbbing with its own heartbeat as his skin melded with hers. 

_He only has one hand - and with it he chooses to hold mine._

The sheer numbers crushed them in, a wall of people closing around her from every side... but all Brienne saw was Jaime – the nearest and the only person of importance to her. They sipped cider, the chalice balanced precariously in his golden hand, the cup soon dropped and lost amongst mingling feet dancing in the limited space. 

The lion shrugged flippantly, too buoyant to care. “If you can’t beat them?”

His arms snaked around her thick waist, pulling her in; setting Brienne’s skin to tingling beneath her tunic at the contact. She fleetingly wondered if Jaime could feel how her maidenly body quaked at his touch; gooseflesh and anticipation, lightning bolts and burning.

Brienne banished the demure blush which threatened as she gazed down at him, hands fluttering nervously, uncertain how to appropriately respond to the closeness. Eventually they came to land upon his shoulders, her long gangling elbows bent between them, folding her corded arms almost in half to fit without pushing him away. 

“How very intimate.” He quipped with a chuckle, prosthetic shifting from her hip long enough to encourage her hand to the back of his neck. Her calloused fingertips finally able to brush the softness of his golden locks. The feeling so euphoric the world around her blurred and warped, rendering her head dizzy, threatening to make her pass out from the overwhelming emotions. 

_No - I won’t leave this moment with him._

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, her voice a shy and abraded rasp. “I am a clumsy dancer at the best of times and I fear my Septa never schooled me in how to move to this sort of music.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice now sensation in addition to sound, vibrating over her face, breath warm and scented with liquor. “I don’t think anyone’s did.” 

Brienne bit into her bottom lip, fighting the urge to smile, for she knew it was a hideous sight – her mouth too wide, her giant teeth too horsey. 

_And the last thing I want to do is frighten him away._

Instead, she clung on for dear life. Firming her grip on his shoulder and the nape of his neck, keeping herself anchored and upright, scrambling for conversation to cover her awkward silence. “What in the name of the Seven is this song? It is nothing I recognise.” 

“Hmmm…” Jaime cocked his head sideways, making a great show of listening. “Aha! Cat’s Mating Call.” 

“That isn’t a song.” 

“Are you sure? For it quite sounds like that’s what they are trying to imitate. There were many cats around the Keep and I swear they sung this melody.” 

Now she did smile, the urge taking over despite her best efforts. The timid glow replacing all the lame responses she composed and then discarded in her mind. 

The lion regarded her, his tone low and sweet. The likes of which she had never heard throughout their long acquaintance. “It makes no matter anyway – we barely have the space to move properly. I’d say we can dance however we wish.” 

And so, they swayed in their little spot. The two square feet of floorboard which was hastily becoming her favourite place on earth. Where the caterwaul of strings may as well have been a heavenly choir, for Brienne was in paradise. 

When another couple careened into their vicinity, Jaime yanked her flush against him, chests colliding and his cheek skimming hers, the curtain of his blonde hair connecting with her nose. Brienne closed her eyes and drank it in, the smell of Jaime’s leathers, the rise and fall of his breathing, the fit of their frames. This was the closest she had ever been to a man without a sword in her hand and the heat of battle. 

_When Renly and I danced it was at a respectful arm’s distance – nothing like this._

When Jaime moved, she followed. A natural rhythm, their personal simpatico. Repeating and flowing in perfect harmony, a fluidity which made their forms seem more single instead of plural. She couldn’t help the curiosity it fostered within her, the first instance where she had felt an affinity towards the more physical act of love. Imagining how these movements would feel horizontally instead of vertically, his body covering hers, rocking her as if they were dancing. 

_If it feels even half as blissful as this – I would gladly discover it with him._

“Jaime!” 

Her eyes had flown open at the sound of Tyrion’s voice, blinking hazily and returning to the pulsating room. The Hand of the Queen stood before them, proudly brandishing an old key between two fingers. She deduced that he must have manoeuvred his way through the revellers towards them whilst they were absorbed by dancing – and it was only now she noticed that the cluster of people was thinning. “I abused my newfound power and influence to secure us rooms for tonight. It is not much – there is barely enough accommodation here to house even someone as tiny as me – but it’s what you do with it that counts.” 

He waggled his eyebrows indecently and Jaime guffawed, bending down to accept the key. “You’re a dog!” 

“I will take it!” Tyrion grinned impishly, downing the remaining contents of his goblet before disappearing with two raucous women, their sleeves already slipping suggestively off their shoulders. 

“Where is everyone going?” Brienne murmured, already feeling the pinch of their dance coming to an end. 

“To celebrate life.” Jaime replied, raising a shoulder. “It’s what people do after tragedy.” Lifting her hand from his neck, he twined his digits through hers again, and she felt the cool press of the keyring looped around his fingers as he led her away from the dancefloor. “I’ll wager many a bastard will be conceived tonight, replacing those that were lost in the war. Life renews itself.” 

The sea of moving couples funnelled them onto the staircase and her chest began to thunder as they climbed. 

_Are we going to…? Will we? Does he mean **us** as well? _

Astoundingly what flickered within was less akin to fear and more to hope. Nerve-endings sizzling with the idea of making love to her lion Lord. 

_Jaime will kiss me; he will touch me. After tonight I could be his…_

But a stern part of herself issued a warning. 

_Do not get carried away, why would he want you? Best be sure before your heart runs away with itself. He may be getting you out of the way to engage the services of a more alluring lady..._

She gulped. “Will you be finding yourself a woman?” 

“No.” Jaime answered so quickly and simply it made her heart pirouette. “I have never been the type of man who takes pleasure in whores or tavern women. I know the majority do but…for me the throes of passion are only appealing if they are the result of love. Empty encounters are just that – empty.” 

“You amaze me Ser.” Brienne breathed, for once speaking straight from her soul without filter. “In most ways we are so different, but in the important things we see perfectly eye to eye.” 

“Fancy that?” The corners of his mouth tilted upwards and he held her gaze for several beats too long. 

_This is happening._

It took them a few minutes to find the door which corresponded with the faded engraving upon the key. All the while her temperature escalated, her digits fidgeting with anticipation. Willing his next phrase into being, her thoughts a chant, a plea, a prayer. 

_Ask me, ask me, ask me. Ask me to join you beneath the covers._

_I am a woman. I want you. I love you. I will warm your bed for the night._

_All you have to do is ask – please ask._

He unlatched the door, swinging it open upon rusty hinges, the room little more than a transformed cupboard, boasting a small, musty pallet with barely a foot between it, the walls and door. Jaime seemed to blanch at the sight, his mouth contorting in an exaggerated grimace, tongue clucking disapprovingly. 

_I have slept on the ground, I don’t mind._

Brienne hovered behind him in the doorway, nervously wringing her hands, waiting for an invitation to cross the threshold. Waiting for him to say something.

_Anything._

Jaime glanced back at her, peering over her shoulder to the hallway beyond. Watching giggling couples disappear into neighbouring hovels which would provide their lodgings for an amorous night. It made her agitation amplify by the second. 

_Ask me._

She saw him swallow, taking a large step backwards and retreating from the dark interior. His movements suddenly stiff and formal, his posture rigid. “Forgive me Wench – I know we have slept side by side many a night upon campaign…but you are a noblelady and this entire situation has an unsavoury undercurrent. I would not impinge upon your honour by assuming we will continue the pattern. To share a room this evening would call your virtue into question.” Jaime took another step back and her heart plummeted into her boots. “I shall stake myself out a spot by the hearth downstairs. There will be plenty of places available on the carpet as the crowd clears.” 

_He doesn’t want me. He didn’t intend…_

The rejection stung like a thousand wasps. Their swarming the buzzing in her ears, their welts the reddened blotches rising on her cheeks and chest. 

_I thought he wanted me…of course he didn’t._

Brienne’s bottom lip wobbled and she sucked it into her mouth so he would not see. “No - no.” She tried to keep her tone even. “I find it is indeed too stifling in here for me after all. I will retreat to the stables as I first suggested.” 

“It is not safe…” 

She had already scurried to the stairwell, the only person looking to descend. Brienne snatched a ragged breath, filling her lungs. 

_Just one more sentence, then you can go. Then you can sob over your own foolishness._

“I never go anywhere unarmed.” She tapped her sword, safely ensconced in the scabbard at her hip. “I will be fine.” 

A tiny gap appeared between the bustling couples and she seized her opportunity, ducking between their drunken bodies and fleeing down the stairs two at a time. 

In the stable, she had wept into her horse’s mane. Letting its coarse hair muffle her shuddering cries. 

_He didn’t want me. He will never want me._

By chance she had caught sight of her reflection, a distorted view of her monstrous appearance in her mount's water trough. The moonlight and the glassy surface combining to speak the truth Septa Roelle had always told her she would find in a mirror. 

_Ugly. So very ugly._

_And it is as true today as it was then. As it has been since my girlhood._

Brienne sank to the floorboards beside her bed, fountains trickling from her eyes as she leant her back against the frame. A lifetime’s worth of derision surfacing at once, descending upon her and taking the form of a tourney ground and stands littered with jeering men. Of screwed up nostrils and sneers of disgust. 

It was not an exaggeration – in fact the image was all too easily conjured. She need only call on the memories of Renly’s camp, of the cutting cries of ‘beauty’ that filled the atmosphere. 

“Fuck, it’s a woman!”

“You are beastly.”

“The maiden not-so-fair.” 

“What an unfortunate face.”

“No man deserves to be cursed with such as you.” 

_How could he ever love me? How could anyone? I am an aberration. An eyesore in a vaguely female form._

_But in my heart, I am a woman. I want Jaime’s love. I want him to hold me. To feel the warmth of his lips. To give my heart, chastity and faithfulness to the man that I adore._

_Though it will never be – because I am me. Those simple pleasures will never be mine._

_Acceptance, esteem. Genuine compliments and ingratiating attentions. Sweet words; songs and poems. Dedications to a Queen of Love and Beauty. For me, even a rose was too high a price._

_What would it be like to glimpse a lovestruck look in Jaime’s eyes? Directed at me. Intended for me._

_What would it feel like to be swathed in awe and admiration? To embody the confidence and acclamation that pretty ladies feel when they enter a room, instead of shambling with my eyes cast downwards in shame._

_Do I ask too much? Do I want too much? Why did the Gods curse me thus?_

Despairing Brienne turned around, kneeling on the hard floorboards, clasping her hands to pray.

_Maiden – please do not forsake me, please heed my humble plea._

_You brought forth a bride for legendary Hugo, you teach the birds to take flight with your smile._

_Fill little girls’ heads with dreams of love and watch them turn to sighs when they flower and wed…_

_Mine is a heavy heart. In your dominion I linger._

_Unlovable, shunned, watering the ground with my tears._

_You are the Maiden fair – and I am the furthest thing from that description._

_But please I pray…_

_Spare me this fate, this mockery and heartache. Anyway you can - I beg, I beseech._

_So that just once I may feel as other women do – and grasp happiness, taste romance. Feel love._

Swiping at her eyes, she clambered into the covers, bundling them over her cumbersome limbs and blowing out her candle. Brienne lay on her back, sinking into the pillow, staring at the ceiling as yet another tear slipped down her cheek. 

_I can still imagine, for the time I have left I can convince myself of the impossible._

Shutting her wet lids, she envisaged Jaime riding up Evenfall’s stony front steps. Knocking on their gates with a bold fist, garbed in his golden armour, the white Destrier beneath him stomping impatiently. “I’ve come to claim My Lady.” He grinned at the bewildered guards. “Though I generally call her Wench.”

Even the illusion of him lifted a portion of the weight from beneath her ribs and she smiled sadly in the darkness, tasting salt as a tear slipped over her bulbous lips, redirected by her crooked nose. 

_Maybe I will dream of him. Feel his kisses in the realms of fantasy._


	3. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it – Proverb

The whole of creation was white. 

White tiled floors, white pillars, white candles, white light. 

When Brienne looked down, she too was garbed in the stark colour; her modest, high-necked gown reaching to her wrists and past her ankles, its folds of fabric the shade of freshly fallen snow. The dress billowed even upon her large frame, seeming to float around her in diaphanous lightness, filling her with a weightlessness her cumbersome body never experienced in day-to-day life.

_‘Kneel down.’_

The whisper spirited through her mind, softer than the breeze from a swallow’s wing, and she obeyed without hesitation, drifting gently to her knees. Landing upon the tiles as if they were pillowy clouds. 

_But they are…_

She could not have said how or when the hard flooring transformed to white mist. A bottomless, benevolence which enveloped her to either side. Brienne reached out with timorous hands, letting the pale threads play between her fingers, watching the evanescent swirls waltz to a faint hymn of birdsong and choir. The origin both nowhere and everywhere. 

_Where is that coming from?_

She lifted her head to locate the source, her inhale hitching in her throat when a statue stood before her, occupying formerly empty air. Its grandiosity splendid and breathtaking; immense but so kindly it did not impart fear. 

The effigy was carved from pristine white marble - similar to the shrine in the Sept of Evenfall she had lain flowers upon as a little girl - but infinitely more ethereal. The form draped from head to foot in flowing white gauze, transparent and swaying in the non-existent breeze. A wreath of wildflowers held the shroud upon the statue's head, the translucent fabric alive with a resplendent aura, illuminating golden from within as the idol opened her eyes, pale cold stone transmuting to colour and life beneath the sheen. 

_“Blessed Brienne, Maiden of Tarth.”_

The deity’s voice reverberated in her chest, a feeling as much as a sound. Its richness sonorous and powerful, imbued with a sweetness of innocence which removed all traces of fright. 

_“I know you well. It is not just those fashioned in my likeness on whom I bestow my favour. You who possesses so many gifts, whom I gaze upon with affinity. I give my love irrespective of appearances and value your courage in adversity._

_It grieves me to see my daughter cry – for I am the patron of all whom cling to virtue, the only children an eternal Maiden may ever claim._

_Do not weep, nor hang your head…my disciple so pure, your soul so good._

_For you I had hoped the blessing of honesty, to reveal the kindness and depth of the mortals who surround you. Touching upon all who lead with their eyes and finding their souls wanting, unworthy. The benison and bane of being judged for the value of your face rather than your heart._

_But I see my trial exacts a bitter toll and I would not see my dear one shatter…”_

The exquisite apparition lifted her slender arms, the material flowing from their lengths along with a warm energy. It filled the atmosphere, crackling in the stillness. Charging Brienne’s hair and skin as the immortal before her delivered her decree in mellifluous tones. 

_“You are mine Brienne…and as long as you walk the path of the chaste, grace will glow upon you. Be lighter than air and go forth with a spring in your step – for you will be lovelier than a sunrise kissed by melody, than a rose bud gilded in dewdrops, sparkling in the beams of the morn._

_Your features the work of divine hands, your frame the sculpt of desire - until all who gaze upon you will believe it is I myself who walk amongst them. A Goddess projected into human form, Brienne a mirror of my finest handiwork._

_But alas…”_

Beneath the veil, her shapely lips puckered into a sombre pout. Her lilt dulling, a serious mien overtaking her benign countenance. 

_“… slip from my grasp, cross the divide to the Mother’s realm. Spill the blood which binds us and sacrifice the title of Maiden Fair... And so to, shall go my blessings._

_For mine is the dominion of the immaculate and untouched, I have no place in lovers' sheets or carnal embraces. Beyond that moment of passionate surrender, I hold no power and thus with a new dawn must relinquish my precious charges into the Mother’s care.”_

A fond expression tugged at the corners of the Maiden’s mouth, nodding her head once in respect to the young woman who knelt before her. 

_“Never doubt I love you vestal daughter, through virtue we are bound. Proceed knowing I smile upon you… And I hope you find all the truth you seek.”_

With that parting phrase the mist thickened, rising and obscuring her heavenly vision from view. Fogging Brienne’s senses until the paradisal plane faded, a serene requirement for slumber pulling her back into a dreamless sleep. 

* * *

Brienne blinked awake, roused by the same streak of light which cracked through her curtains each morning. A repetitive comfort in her uncertain existence. 

She felt strangely well rested - considering how she had fallen asleep to the pattering of tears upon her pillow, how her dreams had denied her Jaime’s caresses despite her vivid imaginings. 

She lifted a hand to her face, her digits tentatively skimming the surface of her flesh. Expecting to feel the stiffness of dried rivers, ready to wince when her fingertips grazed the uneven mess of scars and pulled skin which dominated her reformed cheek. 

Instead, she startled - greeted by the sensation of smooth velvet. 

_That’s odd… I must have slept on my hand and lost feeling._

Pulling away she inspected her fingers, hoping to locate the source of the numbness. Gasping when the hand in front of her face was not her own. 

Or at least – not the hand she recognised.

_What...?!_

Sitting up slowly, Brienne waggled her digits in front of her. Proving that the foreign extremity was indeed attached to the end of her arm. 

_But it can’t be – it’s…it’s…tiny. And…_

This part was the most shocking of all. 

_Feminine._

Turning it over and back in disbelief she studied the strange manifestation. A ladylike hand boasting dainty fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Skin so soft it was as if it had never seen a day’s hard work or manual labour. 

_Are they both like this?_

She brought forth her other hand, jaw dropping open when she compared them against each other and found them identically matching. Gone were the callouses, the digits thick as sausages, the domineering freckles and blunted nails. 

Fixated, she leant forward, lowering her head nearer, a long flowing lock of silken blonde hair suddenly falling over her shoulder. Cascading downwards in soft waves and unexpectedly tickling against her wrist. 

In a fit of alarm, she grabbed at the tress. Acting upon impulse before rationale could think better of it. Tugging roughly and exclaiming in pain when she learnt the hard way it was affixed to her scalp, her shriek high-pitched and unprecedentedly girlish. 

_I’m going insane._

Whipping back the covers, Brienne swivelled around to jump out of bed. Stopping dead at the sight of her own body in its nightclothes.

Her legs were at least a foot too short, dangling from the side of the mattress instead of reaching the floor, coming to an abrupt end far sooner than they generally did. Their lack of length compensated by a pair of feet so small they could have belonged to a sprite from folklore. 

But that was the least of her concerns. The presence which had really knocked the oxygen from her lungs was the bulging bustline interrupting her view. 

With quaking hands, she peered inside her nightshirt, eyes almost popping out of their sockets when she beheld the shapely breasts attached to her chest. 

_A chest clear of freckles. A chest without bear claw scars. A chest that leads to a remarkably tiny waist…_

“Seven Hells!” She dropped the fabric with a squeak, leaping from the bed and beginning to pace. The carpet feeling surprisingly plush against feet which should be slippered, the skin of her soles pink and delicate. 

“I’ve got to wake up.” Brienne declared under her breath. “It’s all quite simple really - I’m still dreaming.” 

_Even though I felt the pull when I yanked upon my hair...?_

Determined to double-check, she took the flesh of her lithe, fine arm between two fingers, pinching roughly. Yelping when the fingernails she wasn’t accustomed to having dug in harshly, the alabaster surface of her skin already discoloured and starting to bruise. She rubbed the patch hastily, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.

_Since when am I so frangible? That should not have hurt, I have suffered far worse pain. And since when do I yelp?!_

Even more disconcerting was the conclusion that she must be awake.

“This makes no sense.” Brienne announced to the empty room, rattled when her own voice carried at a slightly higher octave, its trill syrupy and endearing. 

She began to shake; her hands juddering of their own volition, her legs trembling beneath her, faintness making her vision swim.

_Think - focus._

_The room hasn’t changed – this is your bedchamber, exactly as it has always been. The only thing that has altered is you. So - what did you do?_

_What is the last thing you remember? Retrace your steps of last night._

“I spoke with my Father,” She voiced aloud, trying not to be disturbed by her sugary tones. “I retired to my bower, I sobbed. I prayed…” 

Swaying on the spot she splayed both arms outwards to steady herself. “…I prayed.” 

Repeating it made the recollections begin to flow. “Then I dreamt of the Maiden.” 

_“Go forth with a spring in your step – for you will be lovelier than a sunrise kissed by melody…”_

The lone phrase of the blessing echoed in the recesses of her mind, empyrean and astounding. 

“It can’t be…” Inching forward with quivering steps Brienne made her way to her dresser and looking glass. The issuer of brutal truths which she hid in the corner of her chamber, widely avoided unless she required a reality check at her Septa’s insistence. An altar where she sacrificed confidence and joy, a piece of furniture which all too often saw eyes reddened with unshed tears.

Leaning upon the mahogany dresser, she inhaled a deep breath. Steeling herself for the reflection which would greet her - the first time Brienne hadn’t known what she was about to see. 

With resolve she lifted her head, peering into the honest glass…

Only to find a beautiful young woman staring back at her, head tilted in questioning incredulity. 

Her hair was the same blonde shade, but longer in length with the occasional bouncing luxurious wave, light dancing upon shining strands and sleek softness. 

Her face was comely, daresay gorgeous. Perfectly proportionate features with a blemishless complexion of uninterrupted ivory. Pinked cheeks and rosy lips, plump, supple and shaped like an archer’s bow. Her nose was delicate and subtle, perfectly aligned with ideal symmetry, never having been broken.

Brienne pressed closer, straight pearly white teeth burrowing into the fullness of her bottom lip, long thick eyelashes almost brushing the glass as she released the breath she was holding, creating a warm cloud upon the mirror’s surface. 

She swiped it away with her sleeve, barely recognising herself. The ghost of a sweet smile beginning to greet her as she gazed into her own eyes. 

They were the only thing that had not changed. The steady blue enduring, letting her know it was indeed her own likeness which she beheld. 

“Thank you, Maiden.” 

* * *

“I have no further explanation for you - other than the supreme Goddess heard my prayer, and decided in all her glorious beatitude to grant me this new form.” Brienne sat in Lord Selwyn’s solar, trying desperately not to be offended by the jubilance emanating from her Father and Septa. Their ebullience at her different appearance barely contained. 

“It is a miracle!” The Evenstar proclaimed, his voice trumpeting with excitement. “My daughter, _my_ daughter, the most beautiful maiden in all the Seven Kingdoms!” He alighted from his chair, striding proudly about the room. “These are glad tidings Brienne, glad tidings indeed!” 

“Praise the Seven!” Septa Roelle raised her wrinkled hands skyward. “Faith and piety will save the day. This is a credit to you Lord Selwyn… for your sufferance and your humility. Rejoice in the wonder of the God’s intercession.” 

“I do! My word I do.” The Evenstar swept Brienne up in an embrace, throwing his large arms around her, and almost crushing her slight frame. 

_That used to feel a lot gentler, when I was larger and could withstand his strength._

Brienne coughed mildly and he released her, seizing her shoulders and shaking them merrily. “You do me proud daughter. You do me proud.” His smile was the broadest she had ever seen and she tried to find joy in bringing him happiness. 

_I never knew just how great a disappointment I was to him before._

“Septa Roelle! We have much to organise.” Lord Selwyn declared. “We need gowns and trimmings. Exquisite articles stitched from the finest fabrics money can buy if they are to be donned by such a great beauty. And I will have her Mother’s jewels fetched from the vault. Every man who attends this tourney will fall all over himself to win her heart and wear her favour. Ahhh, but they must strive - they will have to bring their best offers if they think to be worthy of my Lady Brienne.”

They chatted excitedly amongst themselves as Brienne sank back into her chair. 

_All this fuss…I am still the same person._

“Father…” She called as they plotted, catching snippets of conversation surrounding flattering designs and employing a corsetiere. “Father… I do not want to draw too much attention to myself, you know I am shy around people and not used to it. I would be happy with my current wardrobe – mayhaps my clothes could be taken in? I still have some lovely gowns provided by Septa Donyse that have gone unworn -” 

He waved her interjections away with a dismissive hand. “Nonsense Brienne, if the Gods saw fit to bestow upon you such charms, it would be ungrateful not to accentuate them.” 

“We must employ her Ladies as well My Lord, women skilled in fixing hair.”

“Yes – I will see to it as once.”

Brienne slumped, feeling the familiar pit in the base of her stomach. The knot of nausea and nerves which had been a constant presence for years, generally accompanied by a feeling of dread. 

_At least some things remain the same._


	4. It is the beautiful bird which gets caged – Chinese Proverb

_That made forty-six._

_Count, recite, repeat. Count, recite, repeat._

_I am a parrot bedecked in foliage._

Brienne cast a furtive glance over her gown, its flowing silk of palest sage adorned with a delicate but abundant floral pattern. Each individual petal hand-stitched to reflect the native flowers found on Tarth. Its sleeves were slightly puffed on the shoulders before fitting snugly down her lithe arm, coming to an end on her wrist in a trim of delicate Myrish lace. Her slender waist was cinched with a fern green sash - tied ridiculously tightly in her opinion - but the discomfort of its stranglehold was nothing compared to the horrendous cage of her corset. 

_This outfit is a prison within itself – restrictive and impractical. Its many trappings and layers all designed with the aim of ensnaring a husband._

_And I do **not** want any of these jackanapeses._

She sighed, feeling her chest constrict against her bindings with the simple action. Deprived of even an easy lungful of air as she endured the never-ending procession. 

The Knights were arriving, and it was the Maid of Tarth’s duty to greet them. Standing at Evenfall’s postern gates with her Septa hovering over one shoulder and her Father two paces to the left, the sprawling gardens painting a panoramic backdrop behind her. Brienne’s spiel had been written for her and agreed upon, her instructions simple. 

_‘Stick to the script and smile prettily.’_

Number forty-six (she had forgotten his name already, there were too many and she didn’t care a whit about any of them) had moved on to speak with her Father. Their booming voices carrying to where she stood, never pausing to consider that she might be able to overhear. 

“Lord Selwyn, it is a pleasure! You will receive my proposal submission within the hour. A fine specimen indeed – where have you been hiding her?” 

“It is a big island Ser Conway.” The Evenstar chuckled, shaking his hand. “We hold many secrets.”

“You must, for if you don’t mind my saying - I had heard the most disturbing of rumours that your daughter was somewhat of an anomaly. Yet here I find a maid that puts even the striking scenery of your island abode to shame. She is gloriously pretty.” 

“Who do you think started the rumour?” Her Father’s jocularity sounded forced to her ears, their official story about her appearance sticking in her chest every time it was relayed. 

_That is what my past has been reduced to – my true face a tall tale to keep suitors from my door. My past heroics erased, diminished._

She had balked of course when Lord Selwyn contrived the cover up – arguing for her repute, for her fame. “Who fought in the Long Night Father? Who joined Renly’s forces? I existed! I was not invisible nor nameless – questions will be raised; my face was known.”

“Then best be grateful the lucky few who survived the wars will have returned to their respective kingdoms – the majority residing north of the Neck. Once settled they will have little cause to venture far from home again, a tourney in the Stormlands will not be attractive to them.”

“And of the others?” Brienne was horrified, aghast. “Those who saw me receive honours from the Dragon Queen? What are we to tell them?”

“Ahhh, daughter.” Her Father had sighed, shaking his head sadly. “Those men do not see you as a prospective wife – they see you as a warrior, a fellow comrade-at-arms - they will not come seeking your hand. And in the unlikely event that they do, I will pull them aside and explain.” 

“That the Gods changed me?”

“No. That after the loss of my wife and other children I became overprotective. Determined to shelter my beautiful girl from all whom could take her away from me, because I couldn’t bear to lose her too. Therefore, I employed a ruse until you came of age. A decoy trained in combat who would play your part and chase off any unwanted advances.”

Her eyes had welled as she gulped down another helping of hurt, her newly acquired chirruping voice taking on the texture of gravel. “And you honestly believe they will accept that? So easily be persuaded to brush all that I was under the carpet?” 

“Yes.” The Evenstar did not even blink. “For truth is oft stranger than fiction.” He had tented his fingers, resting his bearded chin upon his thumbs. “Brienne – do you really think it is widely accepted that an unchaperoned Lady and sole heir would go traipsing around Westeros playing at being a Knight? That she would choose a sword rather than a husband and babe? If these gents have heard of your adventures – being held captive in the Riverlands, undertaking quests to rescue other young maidens, being strung up and almost hung like a common hedge knight - do you really think they will be displeased to learn these deeds belonged to a pretender? Take my word for it, Brienne – they will be naught but relieved. No man wants a wife who believes she wears the steel and he the skirts.”

_Sadder still – is that he was right. As yet not one Knight has excessively questioned, nor shown reluctance to believe Father’s tale._

“…When a daughter is as breathtaking as my Brienne, precautions must be taken. I could not have every man in the land invading my home and threatening to carry her off!” Lord Selwyn grinned, making sure his eyes crinkled genuinely. “It was a necessary safeguard for her virtue.” 

“Understandably! For had I known what a treasure was hidden upon these shores, I would have sailed forth years ago with thoughts to woo her.” 

“Well, you will have plenty of opportunities over the next four days Ser Conway. We are glad to have you here…”

“My Lady!” The sharpness in Septa Roelle’s tone let Brienne know that her wandering attention was noted. “Ser Halliver…” 

The Maid of Tarth snapped her focus back to the approaching man in front of her, the smile she was supposed to don barely touching the corners of her mouth.

“Ser Halliver, welcome to Evenfall. I hope your journey was smooth and I thank you for travelling so far. My Father is honoured to host this tourney, offering his hospitality and opening our homelands to the finest knights in Westeros. And I, as the future Lady of Tarth, wish to extend my warmest greetings.” 

_‘Pause for five seconds and simper.’_

_Unlikely. They will get the former, but not the latter._

Ser Halliver was staring but that was unavoidable, every knight and Lord she had greeted so far had goggled at her, some even going so far as to allow their jaw to drop. She misliked it immensely, but comforted herself with the fact that they weren’t gaping because she was freakishly huge and unforgivable ugly. 

_No, they are gawking because I am comely, because I am ladylike, because…_

“Lady Brienne, it is an absolute pleasure and might I tell you how divine you look.”

_Is he staring at my bust?!_

Outrage and indignation started to fill her, affronted and appalled that his eyeline had not shifted from her chest since she began talking. 

_How would you know what I actually look like when your gaze hasn’t lifted?! The nerve, the audacity. I cannot believe he is brazenly ogling!_

It took every last shred of her restraint to rein in her temper. 

_This is perversion, this is ungentlemanly. Something must be done about the lech…_

“Ahem.” Septa Roelle cleared her throat, prodding Brienne in the side with her wrinkled hand. Spurring her to continue as you would a horse. 

“Please feel free to wander the grounds and enjoy the festivities. A Garden Party has been prepared to mark the official start of the celebrations with fare and frivolity. I wish you a lovely afternoon.”

Brienne hurriedly ran the rest of her statements together, her tone conveying the precise opposite sentiments from the pleasantries which she spoke. 

_Though he seems oblivious to anything north of my bosom._

“Thank you, My Lady. Though I’m sure none of the diversions or delicacies could be as delectable as you.” 

_I want to knock his teeth out._ His objectification was making her skin crawl. _Was I supposed to take that as a compliment?!_

Balling her fists at her sides, she found herself surging forward on one foot as he strolled away. The desire to fight and punish his inexcusable impropriety pulsating through her veins. 

“Lady Brienne!” Septa Roelle tugged her backwards by the skirt. “Stand still!” 

She huffed, crossing her arms across her chest. Resolved that with her limbs blocking the view she wouldn’t be subjected to the same again. 

“Lower your arms,” The older woman tugged them roughly loose. “Straighten your posture.” 

“Did you see what he did?!” Brienne hissed, blue spheres flaming. “He leered at me! Treated me as though I was some sort of object. I gave him no leave to stare at me that way, it was unchivalrous. I want him sent packing. _Now_.” 

“They are your suitors! It is to be expected that they will assess your charms for breeding purposes. You are beautiful, they will stare. Now be still, you have more guests to greet.” 

Her frown was unrelenting. Caught somewhere between humiliation, anger and misery. 

_I hate this. I despise being on show._

Brienne closed her eyes, willing herself to calm. 

_Septa Roelle called me beautiful – she has never said that before._

_Wait until Jaime sees me… I wonder how he will look at me? He has never missed a tourney; he knows it is held on Tarth – surely he will attend. It is only a matter of time._

The thought gave her hope to persevere, opening her eyes again and taking another straining breath within her corset. 

_That was number forty-seven. On to the next…_

This time whilst Brienne recited her greeting, her brain repeated a far simpler chant. 

_Please may Jaime come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to ilikeblue for casting a second set of eyes over these last couple of chapters and helping me spot typos.  
> Thank you, I appreciate it! :)


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